


16121

by TeaRoses



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRoses/pseuds/TeaRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cynthia was a mystery that Eileen wanted to solve.  Originally written for 10lilies on LiveJournal, for the prompt "unexpected news."</p>
            </blockquote>





	16121

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with the game mechanics.
> 
> And I realize now that it's really 16/21, not 16121, but then again I think the police probably didn't realize that either, so there you go.

Eileen knew this wasn't a nightmare. It was too real, and being close to death wasn't much like a dream. But she kept walking, kept dodging blows and giving them, kept pretending that with Henry's help everything would be all right again. She knew it would only get worse, though, and when she saw the ghost she knew she was right.

When she saw the face, for a moment she reconsidered the idea that she was dreaming, because of the time she wished she could have seen her. But it wasn't a dream, and this was a dead woman who would hurt them if Eileen and Henry didn't stop her. And now Eileen was remembering, thinking of everything she had tried to forget even before all this.

Eileen's friends threw parties, pointless ones where people drank too much but still hardly dared to talk to anyone they didn't know. And Eileen had not known Cynthia, and had not understood why the woman drew her eye like that. She was very beautiful, with that long dark hair, and very poised. Eileen didn't look at women that way, not usually, but she looked at Cynthia for an hour until finally the woman approached her with a little smile.

"I'm Cynthia Velasquez," she said. But the smile told Eileen more, told her that Cynthia had known she was watching.

"I'm Eileen Galvin," she had replied, searching her mind for what came next. Small talk, flirtation? But why was she suddenly thinking of flirting with a woman?

But they had made small talk, about South Ashfield Heights where Eileen lived, about her work as an administrative assistant, about what Cynthia did for a living.

"I write," she had stated.

"What do you write?" Eileen had asked with some curiosity.

"Stories about women, mostly." Cynthia had touched her arm and Eileen had shivered slightly and tried not to show it.

Cynthia had lost her mother recently.

"She was a very house-proud woman, like they say. Kept everything clean and tidy. And I didn't appreciate that enough while she was alive."

Once she opened up about that Eileen had begun talking about her father, who had passed away two years before.

"He was a poetry scholar. He wrote a little himself, but mostly he studied it. He used to follow me around the house, trying to get me to understand Wallace Stevens."

"After the final no there comes a yes," quoted Cynthia, and Eileen grinned.

"I never thought I'd meet someone else who knew that one."

"Will you come home with me, Eileen? You look like someone who could use more 'yes'."

Eileen didn't really hesitate. Perhaps she should have; she never went home with men right away like this, but this was different. Cynthia was some kind of mystery that Eileen wanted to investigate.

Once she passed the threshold of the apartment in the north of Ashfield Cynthia kissed her on the mouth, without even bothering to close the door. Eileen pressed into the kiss, kicking the door shut behind her, letting her body feel everything the kiss was suggesting.

She pulled back for a moment then. "Are you a lesbian?" she asked Cynthia.

It was probably a stupid question, but Cynthia had only laughed. "I usually just say I'm bisexual. Is that a problem for you?"

Eileen shook her head. "I'm not... I'm straight. Or maybe I'm not but..." She had kissed Cynthia again then, to silence herself and because she needed more.

There wasn't much talking after that; they had gone into the bedroom where Eileen had undressed herself nervously, then watched Cynthia take off her clothing. Finally she had dared to touch that skin, to run her hands over Cynthia's hips, and then she was underneath Cynthia on the bed, looking up into her eyes, overwhelmed by the fact their nude bodies were pressed together like this.

"Are you nervous?" Cynthia smiled.

Eileen though of lying, but decided not to bother. "Of course I'm nervous?" she had said hesitantly.

Cynthia laughed again, that slightly mysterious laugh that Eileen wanted to get used to, and covered Eileen's neck and shoulders in kisses. Then she lowered her head to kiss Eileen's breasts and Eileen arched her back up, feeling an ache already beginning between her thighs.

The other woman didn't move further until Eileen asked, "Will you touch me?"

"I said you needed more 'yes,'" said Cynthia, then stroked Eileen's lower lips gently.

"How about this?" Then Cynthia's mouth was between her thighs, and she was licking, sliding her tongue between Eileen's folds, and Eileen was squirming on the bed and giving ragged cries. It was like Cynthia knew everything, knew just where to touch and kiss and suck. Eileen threw her legs apart, threaded her hands in that long dark hair, and murmured unintelligible encouragement. Finally Cynthia slid her tongue deep inside Eileen, using a finger on her clit, and that was too much, she came hard and called out a "yes."

When she finished shivering, she hesitantly told Cynthia she wanted to reciprocate. And Cynthia had guided her hands, showed her gently how she liked to be touched, how to use her fingers inside. This was nothing like being with a man, there was so much feeling and moisture and closeness. Eileen had gently used her tongue and lips on Cynthia's clit until she had come.

Afterward, Cynthia had invited Eileen to stay the night, hadn't minded sharing her bed, and Eileen had awoken with her hand on Cynthia's hip, telling herself she had to be brave enough to try to repeat this experience.

To her own surprise, she was brave enough. Three nights later she was back, bringing Cynthia a book of her father's poetry. And it had ended in bed, Eileen exploring Cynthia with her mouth as Cynthia did the same to her, Eileen certain this was what sex was supposed to be about.

It did occurr to Eileen that maybe she herself was a lesbian after all. Of course she thought about that now and then, what it could mean. But right now that didn't seem to be the point; she just wanted to be with Cynthia.

Yet however many times she saw her, she wasn't certain she was Cynthia's girlfriend, wasn't certain she was her anything. If Cynthia was with other women or men, she never spoke of it, and that had to be good enough. All the moments lying on the couch with her head in Cynthia's lap while Cynthia read her stories out loud to her had to be worth a little uncertainty, didn't they?

"Sometimes I don't want to come back," she told Cynthia one night in a burst of honesty.

"Why not?" Cynthia had pulled her closer, burying her head in Eileen's shoulder.

"Because I'm getting too attached to you," she had answered.

She waited for Cynthia to say she could get attached, or even to say that she shouldn't, but the other woman had only stroked a hand up her thigh and the mystery of Cynthia had remained. And Eileen had gone on, had been a friend with benefits or whatever she happened to be, as long as it meant she could be close to her.

Until the morning she left for work and saw a group of people from the other apartments talking near the mailboxes.

"Another body."

"They say he cut her up."

"In the subway."

Eileen stopped to listen. If something had happened right there in the subway station she needed to know.

"He carved a number into her chest. One six one two one."

Could it be that serial killer, back again? Eileen remembered the first time, and remembered her neighbor's obsession with him, not Henry but Joseph, who was there before Henry. She couldn't remember all of it, just that there was a case long ago, a serial killer. And then someone was copying that one, or at least they must have been copying him because they had caught the first man and he was dead. Joseph had had some weird theory about it, but when the killings stopped again Eileen had stopped paying attention.

"Some Spanish name."

"Velasquez."

Eileen stood stock still, hoping she had misheard.

"Yeah, Cynthia Velasquez. Did you know her?"

No one answered, and Eileen hurried away before she had to admit that yes, she had known Cynthia Velasquez. That it could even be that Cynthia had been coming to visit her, on one of her mysterious whims, when she had been killed.

By the time she got up the stairs to the third floor she was trembling. How could Cynthia be dead? And how could it happen without Eileen somehow knowing? Something should have gone missing from her the moment Cynthia died, but she had to hear it from someone else.

She didn't want to be alone right now, but she didn't want to tell any of her friends why this was upsetting her so much. And they might ask, might realize that it wasn't just because she herself had taken that subway. Maybe she could talk to Henry. He didn't know her very well, wouldn't pry and also wouldn't care what Cynthia had really meant to her.

When she knocked on Henry's door, he didn't answer. She hadn't seen him in days. Now she was starting to worry about him also, especially if there was a killer out there. But now she was just being nervous. Maybe this was just another copycat and the police had already caught him. All the same, if Henry didn't show up soon she'd ask Mr. Sunderland to unlock his door so she could make sure he was all right.

Now all she had was herself. She sat on the bed and cried.

The next night she had tried to be get over this somehow, struggled with her tears and put on her new dress. But that was when Walter Sullivan had come, and now she was struggling through hell to survive his attack. And the hideous part was that now Cynthia had become one of the things she was trying to defeat.

Eileen watched, waited for Henry to knock the ghost down so they could escape.

"It's not Cynthia," she told herself. "It's a ghost, a thing, it's not Cynthia."

On the ground was a wooden sword, the one he had told her would stop ghosts. But he wasn't using it, or the axe; he was looking at Cynthia's face like he was trying to see her eyes. That was when Eileen realized that he had known Cynthia too.

How had he known her? Eileen didn't really want to know. Maybe he had loved her, just as Eileen had, though she never said the word to herself or to her.

Finally Eileen grabbed the sword and ran at the ghost. She didn't want to do this, but she had to live. The thing that wasn't Cynthia turned to her, hair covering her face, and struck out. Henry hit the ghost from behind with the axe and she fell, hair splayed out around her, the number carved on her chest visible now. Eileen could remember looking at her body lying this way on a bed, waiting for her attentions, and she had to bite her lip to keep the tears back.

"It's a ghost, it's not her, it's not her, it's not-"

Eileen rammed the sword home.


End file.
